The fog had lifted and it was a bright, hard morning, with frost on the panes and sun glinting on the roofs opposite. The street below was bustling with people and carts and carriages. Tom washed and dressed rapidly and went down to breakfast. It was later than he thought and he was the only diner. The motherly woman who’d served him at supper the previous evening clucked around him, offering him more coffee and asking whether he was sure he’d had enough porridge and sausage and kidney and toast and marmalade. She seemed to have taken a shine to him. Making conversation, he asked the way to the cathedral close and she told him to ‘follow the spire and it would be difficult get lost, sir,’ and he thought, of course, stupid question.
Conscious that he had an early appointment with Canon Slater, Tom refused second helpings of breakfast. He returned to his room to get his coat and a small despatch case, suitable for holding documents. When he was going through the lobby he saw the landlord standing on the porch. Jenkins was turning his head from side to side in a proprietorial fashion, as if he owned not merely The Side of Beef but the entire street it was situated in.
‘Ah, Mr Ansell of Messrs Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie. You are well rested, I hope, sir?’
‘Comfortably enough, thank you.’
‘And well fed?’
‘That too.’
‘Have you a moment, sir?’
‘No more than a moment, I am on my way to meet someone.’
‘It is only that I took a liberty last night and I thought I ought to tell you of it.’
Tom hesitated between annoyance and curiosity. He said nothing but stood opposite Jenkins on the porch. The landlord stroked his blackened moustache while his breath frosted in the cold air.
‘You may have observed last night, sir, at supper that I was talking to some ladies and gentlemen. One of them was asking about you. He wanted to know your name.’
Tom recalled the stouut individual leaning back in his chair and tapping the side of his nose, together with the frequent glances he’d cast in his direction. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not a spy with his secrets. You are welcome to give him my name if you like. But if he can ask about me, I can ask about him. Who was it?’
‘Mr Cathcart, Mr Henry Cathcart. He is one of the leading citizens of our town.’
‘And why did Mr Henry Cathcart want to know the name of one of your guests?’
‘He didn’t say, sir.’
‘Well then, there’s an end of it,’ said Tom, making to move off the porch. But the landlord hadn’t finished.
‘All he did say, was that he thought he knew you from somewhere.’
‘Not from here, Mr Jenkins. I’ve never visited Salisbury before in my life.’
With that, Tom strode down the street, without giving Jenkins another word or look. His irritation with the proprietor of The Side of Beef was sharp enough that he didn’t give much thought as to why one of last night’s diners should have been enquiring after his name. Damn Jenkins! He was obviously one of those hotel-keepers who liked to insinuate himself into his guests’ lives and pry out their business. Well, the man would get no more out of him, not even the time of day.
As the woman serving breakfast had said, it would be difficult to get lost on the way to Salisbury Cathedral. Wherever he turned a corner and had an uninterrupted vista down a street, the spire rose up like a needle into the clear light of the November morning. Tom pushed his way through a market and passed an elaborately crowned and buttressed landmark that he assumed was the Poultry Cross, before turning into a High Street which was lined with ancient-looking inns. It struck him that for hundreds of years people had been coming to this place, to carry on their business, to do penance, to visit one of the finest churches in the land.
There was an arched entrance at the end of the High Street, beyond which lay the close and the wide grounds of the cathedral. Once inside, the houses became both grander and somehow more sedate. There were stretches of lawn and walks overshadowed by elms and beeches. Beyond and to his left, effortlessly dominant, rose the vast bulk of the church. The little knots of visitors were easy to distinguish not just by their clothes but by their ambling gait even on this cold sunny morning. Tom was searching for Venn House, Canon Slater’s dwelling, and he might have asked directions from one of the dark-garbed clerics moving as purposefully as crows among the sightseers. But he was oddly reluctant to reveal where he was going, especially after the encounter with Jenkins.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the clerical figures making for him.
It was Canon Eric Selby. As last night at the railway station, he was wearing a coat and muffler and his shovel-hat. The coldness of the morning had brought a hectic colour to the cleric’s smooth-shaven cheeks. Tom was pleased to see him and said as much. By the light of day Tom saw how blue the old man’s eyes were, a blinking blue. He looked like an owl caught by daylight.
‘Didn’t I predict we’d meet again?’ said the Canon. ‘Salisbury is a small place. How did you find The Side of Beef and that chatterer Jenkins?’
‘The landlord is certainly too curious for comfort,’ said Tom. ‘But the food is good and the bed isn’t hard and it will more than do.’
‘Good, good. Now, Mr Ansell, can I direct you somewhere?’
‘How did you know I was looking?’
‘For sure, you are not one of our visitors come to gawk at the spire. And you are carrying a little case which suggests that you are in the close on business, yet I noticed just now that you were pausing in your progress as if not quite certain where to go next. So ask away.’
‘I am searching for Venn House. It’s about here some-where, I believe.’
Tom gestured towards the ranks of fine houses which lay to the north and west of the cathedral. When he turned back to look at Eric Selby he observed the Canon grimacing as though he had bitten into a sour apple. There was a change in his voice when he answered too. The friendly tone was replaced by something more guarded.
‘You are going to see the Slaters, Mr Ansell? Yes, well, obviously you must be if you are searching for Venn House. It’s on the south-west corner of the close, near the end of West Walk. Look out for a fine wall of red brick.’
Tom thanked him and hesitated as if to give Eric Selby the chance to say more. But the Canon seemed disinclined for further conversation and merely nodded before resuming his own progress towards the north transept of the cathedral. Wondering what it was about the Slaters — about Felix Slater presumably — which caused Selby to look displeased, Tom followed the path that led to to his right. Then he turned into a tree-lined road which he took for the West Walk. There were fewer people about here, it was quieter and seemed more like a country village than a town. A carriage was waiting outside the iron gates of one of the larger mansions. The coachman was huddled up against the sharpness of the morning. A workman passed Tom, pushing an empty hand-barrow. The roadway and the grass verges were speckled with frost in places where the sun hadn’t reached.
Then Tom saw someone standing outside the entrance to another of the houses, someone whose presence gave him a slight start. It wasn’t that he knew the person. But his uniform showed that he was a police constable. The man was gazing right and left, but with no sense of urgency. He acknowledged Tom with a nod. Had this been his own street or town, Tom might have stopped and asked the constable what was going on. (Not that anything appeared to be going on.) But he was a stranger here. Any crime or wrongdoing was no concern of his.
Tom went a few paces further then glanced back, conscious of someone walking quickly behind him on the road in the same direction. It was a woman. The policeman was looking at her. Tom turned his head back and felt his face grow warmer. He was fairly sure it was the woman he’d met the previous evening outside The Side of Beef. The same large hat and, he thought, a flash of the same yellow skirt beneath her coat. He recalled that he’d seen her for a second time yesterday, staring up at his room through the fog.